Brother's Blood (6 page)

‘Maybe. But if he is, he's the only woman here.'

Martin looked around. The place looked deserted, but they were probably all in the church, weren't they? But yes, they would all be men, of course. He was used to that. The castle was an all-male environment, except for the Lady Isabelle and …

He kicked a stone. ‘Well, maybe we're better off without any women in our lives.' His voice sounded more vicious than he'd intended. Edwin's face fell, and he put on the sad expression he'd had ever since he'd heard back from Lincoln. ‘Ah. Sorry.'

Edwin shook his head, though he still looked like he might cry. ‘It's no matter. We've business to attend to here, and maybe you're right – we're better off without any women in our lives.'

The rhythmic movement of the ox-cart had sent Alys into a doze. She was tired: she hadn't slept very well during the nights while they were on their journey, partly as she wasn't used to sleeping on the ground, and partly as she was wary of the wide open spaces of the countryside. In the whole course of her sixteen years she had left Lincoln's encircling and protecting walls only a handful of times, and she had never been as far away from the city as this. During the day she was safe, though: Master Theobald was a long-time associate of her father, carrying bales of fabric up and down the land, and as his wife Mistress Christiana travelled with him she had some female company, so she could rest easy and catch up with some sleep.

The cart travelled very slowly, the oxen plodding their way through some ten miles each day; they had also stopped off at a couple of fairs to trade, so it had taken many days to travel this far. Still, at least she'd brought her distaff and spindle with her; during the horrible months in the spring that year she'd had no time to devote to it, but spinning was something she'd been doing since before she could even remember, and she'd been glad to take it up again, finding the familiar movements soothing. On their travels she hadn't had much else to do, so she now had several spools of reasonably fine wool in her luggage, which would come in useful at some point.

The ox-cart rumbled on. She opened her eyes and stared drowsily out at the road, which looked very similar to all the others on which they had travelled. She was glad Master Theobald made this journey every year, for surely it would be easy to miss the way if he wasn't familiar with it. And the weather had been kind, for which she thanked the Lord – she had been told tales of winter travels during which the cart could become mired in deep mud, but during these summer months the roads were dry, if sometimes rutted and uneven. Their final destination was the village of Conisbrough: this was the northern edge of Master Theobald's annual circular route, where he would trade the last of his bales from Lincoln at the fair there and stock up on goods from the north. And it was her destination too.

She closed her eyes again. During the long, endless days of the journey she had had plenty of time – too much time, really – to consider and to reflect on what had happened and what she was doing now. It seemed almost unreal. After the letter had arrived there had been a huge argument, which would previously have meant Alys backing down, but she had gained in confidence and determination during the preceding hard months, and had won her case. The end result was that she had now left everyone she had ever known, and was travelling to a place she'd never been to, to find a man she'd known only for a few days. Was she mad? Probably. But anything was better than the alternative.

They had spent last night camped on farmland which belonged to an abbey, which meant they had been safe, but her sleeplessness continued as she realised how close they were to Conisbrough; they would reach it on the morrow. In the morning she had stayed inside the covered cart, comfortable among the bales of fabric, spinning and keeping her thoughts to herself. She'd heard Master Theobald greet a few fellow travellers, and then she'd dozed off to the accompaniment of the creaks from the axles. She wasn't deeply asleep, but was half-dreaming that she was being rocked by her mother. It was lovely, but a sense of unease pervaded the dream, as the part of her mind which was awake was trying to tell her that her mother had been dead for nearly eight years. But she paid that no mind. The sun shone through the canvas of the roof and she lay with her eyes closed, distaff and spindle still in her hands.

‘Alys! Wake up, child – we're here.'

The cart had stopped.

Alys came to herself all at once and sat up, heart suddenly hammering in her throat. They had arrived. They were here. In Conisbrough. In a few moments she would see the man on whom her future happiness depended; the man she had helped in his hour of need; the man who had returned to save her life at the risk of his own. The man who wanted to marry her. She smoothed her apron and gown, gathered up her courage, and stepped out of the cart.

Brother Amandus fell silent as they neared the abbey building. They went past the great west door of the church and instead entered via a smaller one further along the outside wall. This led into a short passage; on Edwin's right was another door, and on his left a flight of stairs with an archway underneath.

‘That's the lay brothers' range,' said Brother Amandus, pointing to the right. ‘They have their own dormitory and refectory separate from ours.' He lowered his voice. ‘Father Abbot did say that we were permitted to speak to you, and I thought it might be useful for you to know your way around.'

Edwin nodded encouragingly. ‘Thank you. And what's on this side?'

Brother Amandus indicated the arched opening. ‘That goes through to an undercroft storage room, and above is the lay brothers' parlour. It's one of only two places in the abbey where speaking is generally permitted – the other is our parlour – as it's used to conduct business with the outside world. Meetings with merchants who buy our wool, that sort of thing. Or the occasional visit to one of the brethren from a relative.'

Edwin let him rattle on as he looked about him.

‘That means that we can carry out trade while still keeping the inner part of our abbey pure and dedicated to the Lord. This way.'

He led the way straight on to the end of the passage and then fell silent once more as they all emerged into what Edwin assumed must be the cloister. It was a square open space with grass in the middle and a covered walkway around all four edges. They were in the middle of one side of the square.

Edwin turned to Brother Amandus and opened his mouth to ask a question, but he received a shake of the head so he held his peace while they were led around to the left, along what must be the outside wall of the church, and then to the third side of the square where they entered a room which was more or less opposite the passage where they had come in. Edwin hoped Martin was remembering his way around, as he found himself in a comfortable room, currently empty, with a fireplace and a number of benches and stools.

‘The parlour,' explained Brother Amandus. ‘The only other place in which the brethren are permitted to speak to each other within the abbey itself, and of course normally only for the brothers, the choir monks. When you need to talk to anyone, if would be best if you could bring him in here. Some of the older brothers who are excused outdoor manual work will be in here shortly, and I will ask them where we might find Brother Helias.'

Edwin nodded, hoping that the cellarer would be less garrulous and more useful than the guestmaster, and moved to sit on one of the benches. Before he got there the door opened again and a number of elderly monks shuffled in; Brother Amandus spoke to one of them in a low voice and then moved to Edwin. ‘It appears that Brother Helias is not here. He was called away on business.'

‘Oh.' How was he meant to interpret that? Was this something which happened in the normal course of events, or was it suspicious that the monk he ought to be talking to had disappeared? And what was he going to do now? He felt as though he'd been cast into a river, and the flow was taking him far away, and he had no control.

‘You mentioned another brother?'

‘Did I?'

‘Yes, something to do with reading? And the prior told me too, but I can't remember his name, sorry.' Edwin was starting to wish he'd brought some parchment and a quill and ink with him, scratchy penmanship or no.

‘Ah yes, of course, Brother Octavian. He's the precentor, the one who looks after the books. Brother Alexander was reading when he died, so he might be a useful man for you to talk to. I'll fetch him here.'

He left. Edwin looked round at Martin, who was fidgeting, and at the row of elderly monks, who were gazing at him in silence. He looked away. He looked back, but their attention hadn't wavered. He sighed and sat down. Reading? How in the Lord's name did a man get murdered while he was reading?

It wasn't long before Brother Amandus re-entered, followed by a small monk who edged into the room behind him.

‘Edwin, this is Brother Octavian, the precentor; Brother, this is Edwin, the man sent here to find out what happened to Brother Alexander.'

The small monk crossed himself. ‘
Requiescat in pace
.'

Edwin did the same and murmured the words, although surely a monk would go straight to heaven, so he needed to worry more about what had put him there than about the state of his immortal soul.

The guestmaster nodded to them both and left. Edwin moved to a seat further into the corner of the room and gestured to Brother Octavian to join him.

‘Thank you for speaking to me. I understand you can tell me more about what Brother Alexander was doing when he died?'

The monk looked down at his hands, and clasped and unclasped them before speaking. ‘It was distressing.'

Edwin nodded. ‘I understand that, Brother, but anything you can tell me might help.'

‘Yes. Yes, of course. We were all at
lectio divina
– that is, reading holy texts, which we do every morning after terce. Each of the brethren comes to me to be issued the book he is engaged in, and then they go and sit in the cloister: outside if it is fine, and under the roof if not. Then when they all have theirs, I take mine and do the same. We sit and study until the meal which happens just before sext, and then I return to the armarium —'

‘The what?'

‘The armarium – the book room, if you will – and everyone comes to return his book to me. On that day I noticed that one was missing, so I went out into the cloister to see who was tardy. And … and I found Brother Alexander, dead. He was sitting peacefully over his book, except that he had a knife in his back.' He twisted his hands together, fiddling with a key which hung from his rope belt.

‘Whose knife?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know. One of the ones used to sharpen quills in the scriptorium – there are a lot of them around and they don't belong to anyone in particular.'

Edwin was starting to feel desperate. Were there no distinguishing details at all which he could grasp? How was he even to start his investigation? ‘So, how many others would he have been sharing this book with? Surely he can't have been stabbed in the middle of a group of other monks?'

Brother Octavian looked confused. ‘Share? He wasn't sharing with anyone. The point of
lectio divina
is that we each study separately, in silent contemplation. At the beginning of Lent each of the brothers is assigned a book, and he reads it throughout the year, meditates on it, prays to understand it better – all on his own. Of course, some of the novices and younger brethren need to —'

‘Hold on, hold on.' Edwin held up his hand. ‘Each monk has a book of his own? How many monks do you have here?'

‘Sixty, including the novices.'

Edwin stared at him in disbelief. ‘You have
sixty
books?'

Brother Octavian smiled. ‘We have seventy-three.'

Edwin could feel his jaw sagging. Seventy-three books? He hadn't known there were that many in the kingdom. In his life he had seen three books, or at least three proper books, not including the manor and court rolls: the parish Bible, the psalter with which Father Ignatius had taught him to read, and a book with poems in which had belonged to the Lady Isabelle, the earl's sister.